


Heat

by EronimoEntropy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bodily Fluids, Dirty Talk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 12:46:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14425710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EronimoEntropy/pseuds/EronimoEntropy
Summary: Having virtually no knowledge of Game of Thrones, I was challenged (punished) by my friends to write this.  Probably don't read this if you like canon.  Definitely don't read this if you like Game of Thrones.Tyrion and the Khal meet in the desert.  What happens next will shock you.





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarcurls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarcurls/gifts).



> Having virtually no knowledge of Game of Thrones, I was challenged (punished) by my friends to write this. Probably don't read this if you like canon. Definitely don't read this if you like Game of Thrones.

The weather in the scorched plains of the Dothraki was hot. It was hotter than hot. Tyrion had lived most of his life in the southern most parts of the kingdom and had grown accustom to the long summers there, but this was different. Many a whorehouse he frequented was filled with the humid heat that only comes from dishonest, furtive sex, but that too did not come close to this. Not even the exhaustingly long days at sea on the journey over, where the cloudless sky poured endless sun down upon him, reflecting off the ragged salty ocean like hellish light glinting off a harlot’s cheap jewel necklace, could have prepared Tyrion for the oppressive and ceaseless heat of the island desert.

Wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, he steadied the reigns on his horse and watched the horizon, stealing himself for the day to come. He fingered the cap to his wine skin nervously. Tyrion had gone through three already and it was scarcely midday. Bloody desert. Bloody, filthy, sweaty desert. Tyrion would much rather be at port in the company of the degenerate sailors who brought him here, buying mead and swapping debaucherous tales, but his was an essential diplomatic venture and he needed to be on his guard. For today, Tyrion was to seek an alliance with the Khalasar.

In the distance appeared a flickering haze, more a mirage than anything else. Tyrion knew this must be the approaching hoard. He tugged at his leather breastplate bearing the Lannister crest, which ordinarily didn’t feel this tight and constricting, and again wiped his forehead for sweat. Straightening his back, he quickly adopted a persona of cool composure and waited for the Khalasar to come to him.

He was met by a small party of no more than half a score, all horses sleek and adaptable to the will of their riders, all riders strong and thickly built. At the lead was a fair and elegant woman who looked as though she had not yet been fully beaten down by the weight of the world. Tyrion knew that this must be Khallisi Daenerys Targaryen, last surviving heir to the Targaryen blood-line and the one with whom Tyrion was meant to convene regarding the alliance, but it was not her with hair that shone like spun silver that caught Tyrion’s eye.

Trotting respectfully behind the Khallisi on a mighty black stead, but with a presence that proclaimed him to be the true leader of the fair, was a man forged of bronze and glowing in the brilliant sun. The thickly muscled naked torso of this man, who could only be the Khal Drogo, arched and flexed as he pulled his horse’s reigns and brought the procession to a stop, nine yards away from where Tyrion stood mounted. As the Khal stopped, his long sin-black hair swished behind him, the silver bells braided into it chiming dangerously. It was men like this that always made Tyrion nervous. Maybe it was because the Khal and his body, a perfect specimen of what a warrior should be, reminded Tyrion of everything that his short frame lacked, or maybe it was because of the glint in the Khal’s dark eyes, but Tyrion was finding himself to be even more hot than before, if that was possible. The Khal’s were eyes that surveyed the land around him, marking his territory. His were eyes that, with just a glance, could command across a battle field you’re mine. Tyrion repositioned himself on his horse and aggravated his collar.

The Khallisi was the first to speak: “Greetings, Lord Tyrion of the Lannister house, seat of the Seven Kingdoms. I am Khallisi Daenerys Targaryen, descended from the blood of dragons. This is my Khalisar, and this is my Khal. They know not of the common tongue, so I speak for my people.”

Tyrion never had the patience for such pleasantries, and the heat combined with the presence of the intimidating Khal was making him even more irritable.

“Yes, yes, I know who we all are. Tell me, Khallisi, is it the custom of your people to keep your guests waiting like a wanton whore? I’d much rather we continued this conversation under the shade of one of your tents. I can’t take the heat, you see. I’m very sickly.”

At the silence that followed, Tyrion realized that perhaps the Khallisi had gained her ability to tolerate the damned heat by sacrificing her sense of humor. Tyrion glanced around the Khalisar nervously, only to notice that the Khal was watching him closely with those maddening eyes. The quite was broken suddenly by Khal Drogo himself. He held Tyrion’s gaze with an iron grip, and with a thickly accented voice that rumbled like deep thunder he intoned,

“Some mouth.”

Tyrion looked away as fast as he could, feigning that he needed to check and readjust his horse’s bridle, heart beating like he had just escaped a brush with death, which he very well just might have. Before he could conceive of any way to salvage the situation, the Targaryen woman spoke again.

“Some mouth, indeed. You should be thanking the old gods I heard tell of your improprieties before your arrival, Lord Tyrion. Come, let us rejoin the rest of the Khalisar in the shade of my tents. There shall be enough cool wine to drink to satisfy even the most sickly wanton whore.”

“My deepest thanks, Khallisi.”

Tyrion followed the Targaryen’s lead and brought his horse into step with hers at the front of the group, somehow managing to shiver as he passed by the Khal, even in the inescapable desert heat. While the Khal rode behind him, Tyrion could not shake the feeling that he was still being watched by those treacherous eyes.

…

After a tense afternoon lining out the terms of agreement between the Targaryen and Lannister houses, Tyrion finally had the chance to relax in his own tent from the tensions of the day. It was late evening, already dark outside, and yet the temperature of Tyrion’s surroundings showed no signs of getting cooler.

The Khallisi was right about having enough cool wine to drink, which had helped to satiate him during negotiations and sufficiently distract him from the presence of the Khal, who by the sheer act of crossing his arms of sinewy muscle had been able to make Tyrion, who’s oral prowess was his only tool, stumble over his words. But now that the wine was gone and there were no agreements to focus his attentions… Tyrion was getting restless. Bloody, hot, sweaty, damned desert.

He lay on his back atop the cushions provided by the Khalisar, wearing only his under clothes and trying to make his body become comfortable to the temperature by pure force of will alone. His chest was slick with sweat and his malformed back ached in annoyance. If he were back at the port, he’d be in the finest brothel the island had to offer, having happily laid three whores at least, falling asleep in a lusty haze, feeling the sea breeze float in through an open window and tickle his spent balls. But instead he was stuck in a cruel desert in the Dothraki camp, body tense, with only images of the Khal Drogo’s hard chest and domineering gaze to taunt him. Some mouth. This would simply not do.

Tyrion rolled off the cushions and pulled on his trousers, not even bothering lace them properly, and stumbled out of his tent to find more wine. Though Tyrion guessed it was getting close to midnight, the Dothraki camp was still alive with groups of men talking around fires here and there, children running about and giggling to one another. Tyrion wondered if he wasn’t allowed to roam the camp at night, but he didn’t care. Damn the desert. Any of the Khallisi’s guards that were still up would probably mistake him as a child anyway and leave him alone.

Tyrion was unsure of where to go to find more of the sweet and cool wine to drink. He remembered that the tent he had been in for negotiations had large barrels of it stowed away in the corner, and he remembered that it was near to the tent of the Khallisi and the private tent of the Khal that he had been led past on the way to his own. But in the dark and with his mind scattered from the heat, he was not entirely confident that he could make it there. The night was all wrong, and the day had started out erroneously with his first interaction with the Khalisar. Wonton whore. Some mouth. Some mouth! Good gods! It was a shock that the Khal hadn’t galloped forward and crushed Tyrion with his huge calloused hands then and there for disrespecting his Khallisi. Tyrion’s quick tongue was going to be the end of him someday, he was sure of it.

After shuffling around camp for a few minutes and passing by more campfires surrounded by merry Dothraki, Tyrion came upon a grand tent glowing from being lit on the inside. In the soft coppery orange it exuded, he could clearly make out the silhouettes of what lie behind the rich fabric: a couple of rough rectangles that must’ve been tables and the unmistakable shape of barrels that could hold nothing if not more wine! If there were any people in the tent moving around, Tyrion and any Dothraki in the area would have been able to spot them easier than a fool watching a show of shadow-puppetry. Seeing no movement and heart set the contents of the barrels that would hopefully cool and numb him from the unfair temperature, Tyrion boldly strode inside.

Exhausted from the day, Tyrion didn’t even bother to take the time to survey the interior of the grand tent before striding to the far end where he spotted the barrels. Grabbing a large chalice nearby, he went to eagerly begin filling it from the tap when he heard movement behind him: the rustling of fabric and tinging of bells. Tyrion stopped moving and remained still as a statue. He had heard those bells coming from only on person before, and if Tyrion had made the mistake of going into the wrong tent and that very person was in here with him, then he needed to think very carefully about his next moves. Tyrion gingerly set the chalice down and, seeing no other options, slowly turned his body.

Before him was none other than the indomitable Khal Drogo, towering above him like a statue of an ancient god, hewn out of marble, forged out of bronze. Rudely awoken from his sleep, the Khal stood there in only his underclothes, his arms crossed in front of his chest, biceps bulging, his legs bare and athletic, firmly planted on the ground. It took all of Tyrion’s strength to look the man in his eyes and not roam over his celestial body. The Khal watched him, appraising, and spoke:

“Fast talker. No words now, huh?”

“Your Lordship—Khal, I, my deepest apologies for my imprudence. I meant only to find some drink to satisfy my thirst in this damned heat, I did not mean to invade you in your quarters, as such. If you’ll just excuse me, we can forget this matter and I will be on my way—” Tyrion began to try and shuffle past the Khal but was interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder, solidly holding him in place.

“No,” Commanded Drogo. “You stay. Talk more with that mouth.”

Tyrion was speechless. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. He reasoned that it was out of fear, but deep down he knew it was something different, something more. He was slick with sweat from the heat, but he felt another heat growing inside of him as he felt the Khal’s hand massaging his shoulder with a surprising insistence.

The Khal could not want this, want him. It was impossible, there was no way. He’d never even bed a woman he hadn’t paid for. And yet there was the Khal Drogo, staring down at him, dark eyes glinting in the orange lantern light, with an expression of pure heated desire.

Suddenly the Khal was leading Tyrion away to his bed and sitting down on the edge of it, thick legs spread wide, assertive.

“Some mouth. Smart talker. Now talk.”

Standing stunned at the foot of Khal Drogo’s bed, deep oranges trimmed with gold, staring up at the man, sculpted, powerful, in control, the Khal looking down at him with a hunger, a dam broke in Tyrion’s mind and he opened his mouth and did what he did best. He began to talk, and oh the filthy things he said to the Khal, raunchier and hotter than any word he had said to any wanton whore in the whole seven kingdoms. As he spoke, the Khal began to touch himself through his underclothes, sweat beading on his forehead and on his beautiful chest.

Tyrion wondered for a moment if Khal Drogo could even understand all the dirty things he was saying to him, but he didn’t care. Tyrion watched him in awe and, in a moment of boldness, climbed up on the bed next to him and began running his small hands over the Khal’s expansive chest, all the while whispering the most vile and erotic obscenity he could think of to encourage the Khal further. And Khal Drogo was encouraged. He had long since torn off all his remaining clothing in order to pleasure himself uninhibited.

Tyrion was vaguely aware that the stark lighting in the tent still meant that anyone, including the Khallisi, could see their depravity in haunting silhouette from outside, but he was long past caring. Whispering into the shell of the Khal’s ear, licking and nibbling at his neck, smelling and tasting his sweat, listening to the primal noises the Khal was making as he worked his hard cock, —Tyrion had never felt so hot in his entire life and he was loving it.

“Damn the desert… Sweaty, filthy, smutting, beautiful, sinful, damn desert…”

Tyrion grazed his teeth and ran his tongue down the Khal’s chest, dripping in salty sweat in the now humid heat of the tent, and began using his own hand to help the Khal along. Unable to contain himself, Tyrion reached into his own trousers with his other hand and began working his own hard member in rhythm with Khal Drogo. Heart pounding in his throat, mind blurring in the heat, he was so already close, so the Khal must’ve been even closer.

Tyrion’s breath was ragged, and he could hardly tell if he was speaking the common tongue anymore, speaking any words at all. The Khal, too, was taking in jagged breaths, nearing the finish, eyes glazed over in pure lust. In the vital moment, the Khal Drogo grabbed Tyrion by the back of the neck and held him so that they were staring each other in the eye. As pleasure took them both, the Khal locked in on him with his dangerous eyes in penetrating intensity. The Khal’s were eyes that, with just a glance, could command across a battle field you’re mine. 

Shuddering in ecstasy, Tyrion fell out of the Khal’s grip and rolled onto his back on the empty side of the bed. He stared at the high tented ceiling, eyes unfocused, in shock of what he had just experienced. As the sweat began to evaporate from his overstimulated skin, Tyrion began to feel cool for the first time since he had landed on the island of the Dothraki. So that’s how these people manage the heat. The filthy bastards.

Tyrion felt the bed shift as Khal Drogo stood up, bells chiming innocently as he moved away. Tyrion could hear whispering coming from outside the tent and was again remined just how easy it was to see inside, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to Tyrion in that moment other than the memories of Khal Drogo and his dangerous eyes. That and maybe the prospects of getting some more of that wine.

Damn desert. Sweaty, filthy, beautiful, damn desert.


End file.
